a desk
sits solitary, nothing to hold
but its own weight,
dessicated,
covered in vines and moss and
other, lively things.
the students are gone
and dead now,
the teachers are gone
and dead now, and
this classroom is cracked,
like porcelain dolls
the children brought
in, from home.
this desk remembers
what happened.
it remembers the slow decay
of humanity,
and on its surface
is scratched the message:
RUN
what to run from
the desk does not know,
for it has
no mind,
and never will.
